


Drift Compatible

by yoohoopuddin



Category: Pacific Rim (2013), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: I'll add OCs and other relationships most likely., Pacific Rim AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 06:14:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoohoopuddin/pseuds/yoohoopuddin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Richard wailed. He lurched forward, the jittery hobbles of his knees somehow allowing him to crawl the last few paces forward. He was in so much pain. His fingers pressed deeper; pads a stark white against the crimson blood that drenched his wrist, his arm; the entirety of his pleading drag. He’d seen the warnings on the television, he’d seen the posters draped across the crumbling streets outside. He’d seen the heroes they splayed across the screens - the pilots; coated in thick armour, permanent smirks etched into their faces. But all that - the glory; the fairytales he’d been fed as a child, it disappeared in an instance. It faded all too quickly as he bled, shattering to mere shrapnel thoughts with each laborious heave of breath."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drift Compatible

Richard wailed. He lurched forward, the jittery hobbles of his knees somehow allowing him to crawl the last few paces forward. He was in so much pain. His fingers pressed deeper; pads a stark white against the crimson blood that drenched his wrist, his arm; the entirety of his pleading drag. He’d seen the warnings on the television, he’d seen the posters draped across the crumbling streets outside. He’d seen the heroes they splayed across the screens - the pilots; coated in thick armour, permanent smirks etched into their faces. But all that - the glory; the fairytales he’d been fed as a child, it disappeared in an instance. It faded all too quickly as he bled, shattering to mere shrapnel thoughts with each laborious heave of breath. 

“Jim,” he wheezed - nails gnawing at the curdled flesh of his bicep, a thick ribbon of his own tarnished skin coiling against his grip. His throat was torn to tatters; the stench of polluted air tangling in wisps - clawing at his gums as he guttered and gasped. 

The thought crossed his mind that maybe he was dying, that maybe this was really it. That maybe he would go down as one of the nameless victims; simply an addition to the numbers already spilling out across the condolences. He’d heard the screams; the shrill pierce of cries wretched from the last seedy dregs of the casualties’ vocal chords. Snivelled snobs that had even belonged to the soon-to-be corpses of his parents. They were dead - and for a moment, an idea flickered through Richard’s mind that he wouldn’t dare utter to any living soul, if he could ever find one. 

He believed for a fraction of a second that maybe - maybe Jim was dead, too. Maybe his brother was strewn across the rubble; corroding in the oozing mist of noxious gases; the blue slime slathering his festering flesh. He’d always laughed at them, Jim had - he’d never been properly scared, or so Richard thought. He’d never feared the talons; the gaping mouths twice the size of their house; the flow of their mangled blood that could kill them both in its hail. As Richard cowered, as he dabbled in every useless precaution the forces drilled into their babbling minds - Jim would show no sign of intensity aside fascination.

But no, he couldn’t - he mustn’t - succumb to such nightmares. He lugged himself across the remnants of their bay windows, shards of glass splintering beneath his weight - the tart nips of pain reinforcing the actuality that his right arm had been cleaved to bare scraps of grubby meat. 

“Jim,” he mustered enough scrap of a whistle to hiss again. It was getting harder to breathe. He couldn’t clasp at the wavering ripple of his jugular; the bob of his Adam’s apple as he grappled for a gulp of breath. “Oh go-” a cough exhausted any hope of another prayer. Oh god, Jim, please - you have to be alive. Richard might not be so hasty to admit that he felt as though his brother didn’t deserve a death shared by so many.

He stopped moving. The fragility of his frame crumbled to the debris and Richard, the poor little soul, spluttered across the deteriorating hunks of ash. So, maybe this really was it - his wounded mind sought for some explanation, his vision blurred; a cocktail of futile tears, the ripe poison of soot and a malignant fatigue. His faltering gaze obscured further with each stagnating second - a muddy haze blearing his flittering eyes until darkness swathed him completely. A pitch black.

-

When Jim realised what was happening - that he’d been gifted with the pleasure of having one of those glorious monsters attack his own city - he’d felt what must have been a pang of ecstasy; an excitement that flooded every bow and flex of his straining veins, that bound the murky ink of his pupils to dilate - compassing the near entirety of his sparkling gaze. Finally, finally he had the wondrous opportunity to catch even but a glimpse of the creature - to inhale their septic scent; to gawk at the coarse pucker of their crusted hide; to feel the perfect destruction. 

Then, as his hands had curled into taut fists - nails gnawing at scabby palms, he remembered his brother. He had been transfixed - lost in a cupola of pure bliss, staring out at the thundering chaos with an ache to discover, to harvest every flare of carnage the Kaiju possessed. But his thoughts were fractured, fragmented, as the notion of his darling brother adrift betwixt the turmoil dawned on him. He had to find him - had to exclaim the luck they had been blessed with.

“Richie!” Jim hadn’t been too badly scuffed - the boy, despite his desire for racing towards any sign of danger, usually managed to escape unscathed. He wouldn’t have much minded if he had been. His voice crackled, severed by the venom seizing his throat. Each jouncing leap trembled; his feet wobbling over the gravel, chest fluttering. He was excited. He felt - he felt exhilarated.

He skidded across the ruins - the quarry of abandoned homes; the miserable blood-spattered slabs, soiled in carnivorous rust. Richard lay among it - hunched, huddled body limp - lifeless if one discounted the erratic rasp of his breath. Jim staggered his way over, a smile twitching at the corners of his coral lips. No worry. Jim was as if in a utopia.

He chuckled, bending his shaking legs and sinking to a rest. His palm glided across the jut of his twin’s scraped chin - soothing the blotchy skin. 

“It was - it was one of ‘em!” Jim blubbered out, a grin stretching across his features - expression bordering that of manic. He was drooping; his body not agreeing with the whirlwind blasting within his brilliant mind. He almost toppled over the heap of sanguine limbs that was his brother. Blood.

Richard didn’t retort; his eyelashes, drowned in a heavy dew, didn’t even bat in the faintest response. Jim furrowed his brows, skittering a hand across his brother’s weakening body - clamping at the ragged tissue of his lacerated arm. No need to lose his confidence. Jim inhaled a sharp breath, the fabric of his grotty coat quickly becoming a makeshift tourniquet; the frenzied smile still smearing his face. Vermilion seeped into the material, flimsy as he trawled and raked at the mess of flesh.

Richard felt clammy beneath his brace, freckled with an ashen hue - Jim’s fingertips darting at the frosted tinge of his twin, as he prodded and pinched. He was so cold, the cherry flush he often wore sprinkled across his plump cheeks lost as he paled. 

“One of ‘em, Richie - and it, it came for us! Can - can you believe it?” he rambled out, an insistent weight bearing on the wounds. Richard didn’t agree, nor did he disagree. The air reeked and it was rapidly thriving - swelling. 

His stare was prickled with a glint of urgency; the oscillation of his neck scrambling his sight as his head spun across the narrow slope of his shoulders. And that, as the waxed marble of his pallid skin was coated in a garnet gauze - Jim caught sight of it. The crunch of metal; the blinding ray petrifying Jim’s diffused jerks. A jaeger.


End file.
